Some Winter Tales
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2017. COMPLETE.
1. The Warmest Blanket

**A/N:** Hello all! This year has been a bit skew whiff owing to my own forgetfulness (thanks Cjnwriter for reminding me the of my own Challenge's existence and of the month!) and some WiFi issues. Please forgive any repeated prompts, scattered responses, etc. And if you want to take part please just drop me a line.

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 _From mrspencil - the warmest blanket_

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 **1.**

It was the first of many Decembers Doctor John Watson would come to spend in London and it was _cold._ The Scot in him* should have been accustomed to such chilly weather; long winters spent huddled around fires in their highland holiday home as his brother told him made-up stories were among the most cherished of his memories. It was just another sign of how much his time in the army had changed him. His brother was gone, his body was wrecked and, with it, his born and bred immunity to cold.

He burrowed deeper beneath a too-thin blanket, wishing he had not wasted the last installment of his army pension. The last hotel he had been staying in at least had decent bedding! Squeezing his eyes shut he fought hard not to revisit unwanted memories, and wished for better times.

 **2.**

"Here."

Watson's head snapped towards me. Heavens knew what he had been thinking about - even my renowned deductive capabilities had their limitations - but it was plain to see the man was suffering with the cold. He had been shivering and looking positively miserable all night, curled beneath the old afghan on the sofa with a reflective look.

"What is it?"

I pushed back the derisive snort that bubbled to by lips - I had gotten better at that recently. "Really, Doctor? I think it's quite obvious."

" _Yes_ but..."

"Mrs Hudson says it's the warmest we have." He made no move to accept the blanket from me, so I dropped it into his lap. "Please Doctor, it's no great leap to assume an man recently returned from more temperate climes will be feeling the British weather with more intensity than most."

He chuckled softly and finally picked the blanket up. By the time I had returned to my armchair he was huddled beneath it with such an intense expression of gratitude I hardly knew how to react.

"Holmes-"

I picked up my violin and burst into an impromptu performance. Giving the fellow a blanket was one thing, but I did not fancy partaking in some emotional exchange. I pointedly ignored his smug and knowing grin, concentrating only on the music.


	2. Forgiven

From I'm Nova - Forgiven

* * *

Members of the public often make the mistake of assuming Watson, having put up with me for so long, would not know the meaning of the word 'anger'. This is for the most part true, but the man _is_ human and the fallout when he is angry is... well, terrifying, to put it mildly. Forgiveness might come, but slowly. Painfully too. For example when I turned down the invitation to be best man at his wedding; we did not speak for many months and I suspected we might never bridge the gap which reared between us. It was only through the intervention of Mrs Hudson, and Watson's own dear wife, that we did. Even then the words 'I'm sorry' were never overtly spoken. We returned to our old ways and forgot the spat.

On returning from my hiatus, I assumed Watson's capacity for forgiveness had been sorely tested, perhaps erased, by the death of his wife and child. One of the reasons I employed such theatricality when I revealed myself to him was in hopes that he might be so shocked he would temporarily forget any anger. I was immensely shocked when the tactic not only _worked_ , but was so effective he forgot to be furious with me entirely. I mentioned this to him, with pride, some years later.

"Holmes!" he exclaimed, his wrinkles creased deeper with the depth of his hearty chuckles. "It had nothing to do with your silly dressing up!"

I confess I pouted in a manner most unfitting for a man my age. "Then however did you forgive me so quickly?"

He patted my arm, his deep chuckles subsiding at last. "My dear fellow, I would have forgiven you anything to see you alive. And so I did."

Watson has always had a way of stating things in succinct but accurate detail. It is one of the qualities I have always valued in him as a companion, particularly in case work and occasionally, as now, in our personal interactions. He knows sentimentality makes me uncomfortable and I hoped he would understand when I swiftly moved the subject to bee-keeping; his indulgent smile suggested he did not.


	3. Accident

From Winter Winks 221 - Accident

* * *

I found him huddled on the bottom step, still in a snow-soaked coat and his cane at his feet. He was shuddering with cold, but seemed not to notice and he registered neither the sound of the door opening or my own voice as I said his name.

"Watson?" I shook his shoulder gently. "Watson?"

He jolted at my touch.

"Easy old fellow, it is only me."

"Oh... Holmes." He squinted through the darkness - he had not thought even to light a lamp - and his eyes sharpened onto mine. "Sorry I... there was an accident... a carriage, the snow-"

"I know, Watson." I had seen the carnage on the way home from Scotland Yard. I knew it was Watson's usual route for his rounds, but I had not been certain he had witnessed the incident until I had entered our shared lodgings just now. "You saw it happen?"

"No, no I... I heard it. The crash and the- the screams... The horses..." He wrapped his arms around himself and stood. "Sorry. I only meant to sit for a little while."

"You should take your coat off," I suggested and, once he had done so, I picked up his forgotten cane and handed it over to him. "Would you meet me in the living room in a few moments? Once you are dry and changed, of course."

"Of- of course," he said. He hesitated, on the verge of asking for more detail, but having simple instructions must have been something of a reassurance, as he eventually turned and limped upstairs.

* * *

The snipers, they would target the horses... I wished more than ever for my revolver, and I imagined putting a bullet through the poor creature's head as I had done so many times in Maiwand. Doctors were already seeing to the people trapped in the wreckage but the _horses-_

"Watson?"

I jumped, and my awareness slammed back into the present. I was in the living room of Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of me with a steaming cup of tea. He pushed it into my unresisting hands.

"It isn't up to Mrs Hudson's usual standards I am sure." His voice betrayed not a flicker of emotion. "But it will have to do. I require your assistance tonight."

"My- my assistance?" My mind was still consumed with the sound of horses whinnying in pain. "I don't-"

"I have had a lead come through from Wiggins' gang." Holmes had settled himself into his armchair with his own cup of tea. "As it transpires, Davies had a twin brother, who died at birth."

The horse's screams mingled with the people trapped and the soldiers shot and even through the searing pain as a bullet tore through my own shoulder I could hear- I could- I could-

"A _twin_ brother?" I exclaimed, finally taking in what Holmes had said. "A twin?"

"I have one of Mycroft's men arriving with practically an archive of birth certificates; you see I have an inkling that the twin brother is still alive."

"Which would mean-"

"Davies is innocent." Holmes's eyes twinkled above the rim of his own teacup. "It shall be slow work, I confess, but we could very well save a man from hanging. What do you say, Watson?"

I agreed, as he had known I would, and the rest of the night was filled with the sound of rustling paper and quiet conversation. When we had at last located the missing birth certificate - which proved as we had expected that Mr Davies' twin _was_ alive - I retired to my bedroom where I slipped into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.


	4. Crossover

**A/N** This one is an old floating prompt, because I managed to muck up distribution of prompts on 4th Dec somehow and ended up not having one!

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From Domina Temporis - A crossover with the book of your choice.

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The morning after the capture of Colonel Sebastian Moran, I awoke in my old bedroom to the sound of Mycroft Holmes's shouting.

"Honestly Sherlock of all the idiotic things-"

Sherlock Holmes's voice cut across, quieter so I could not distinguish it. I marvelled; I had once thought never to hear that voice again, muffled or otherwise.

"Do _not_ tell me to be quiet Sherlock, the danger you have put yourself in all for the sake-!"

I forced myself to full wakefulness and threw on my dressing gown. Evidently something of import was taking place and I had no wish to miss it.

"What on earth is going on?" The Holmes brothers both turned to where I stood in the living room doorway. Holmes's expression was strained and apologetic. Mycroft was beetroot red in the face with anger. "What are you arguing about?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Holmes replied with a sour look at Mycroft. "I was awakened by my brother pounding at the door to our lodgings with no mind to the sleeping occupants within and all at once he began to yell at me!"

Mycroft dropped into an armchair (Holmes's) and pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket to dab at his perspiring forehead. "Doctor Watson I am sorry to wake you like this, but what my brother fails to understand is that his _consequences_ have _actions..._ "

"Moriarty is gone and Moran was the last of his cohort to be arrested," Holmes said dismissively. "I fail to see any issue in my returning to London."

"He _isn't_ gone."

Holmes's entire frame went rigid. "Excuse me?"

"He isn't dead, Sherlock."

"That's impossible," I interjected. "He fell at Reichenbach. There is no way he can have survived!"

 _But Holmes did..._ a voice in the back of my head reminded me. I pushed the thought violently away.

"I saw him fall." Holmes's voice was hollow. "Do you mean to say he survived the drop? It isn't possible Mycroft."

"Not for an ordinary man," Mycroft said delicately. "But you see, the man you confronted at Reichenbach wasn't ordinary. And he wasn't Professor James Moriarty."

"Well then who _was it?"_ Holmes snapped.

"James Moriarty - the _real_ James Moriarty - has not been seen in public for several years now," Mycroft said. "Because a man named Dorian Gray has assumed his place."

"So the man who died at Reichenbach that was Dorian Gray?"

Mycroft shook his head. "It was Dorian Gray who went over the falls, but he didn't die. He can't die - not unless a painting, which I believe to be in Moriarty's possession, is destroyed."

From the look Holmes gave me, I could see he thought his brother had gone mad. I cleared my throat,

"Now when you say he 'can't die'..."

* * *

 **A/N** If anyone is inclined to continue this please go ahead!


	5. A Drink

From mrspencil - Lestrade takes Watson out for a drink

* * *

I had not visited the Watson household for some time and was shocked when Mrs Watson opened the door to me. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion and her skin seemed almost translucent in the moonlight. I had meant to come before night fell, but work at the Yard had kept me. Everything took longer now Sherlock Holmes wasn't around.

"Inspector Lestrade!" Her face lit up, erasing some of the . "How wonderful to see you. Are you here for John?"

"Yes, I was hoping to come in for a drink if-"

"Oh! Actually," she stepped out onto the front doorstep and closed the door gently behind her. "Do you think you might be able to take him out for a drink somewhere? It's just-" she glanced back towards the house, and lowered her voice, "He hasn't been out much recently. Ever since Mr Holmes... well he works and he writes and we used to go out together sometimes but now that I haven't been feeling so well... would you?"

For someone who did look so very exhausted, who had confessed her _self_ as ill, Mrs. Watson seemed to burst into energy when it came to her husband's well-being. Speaking of her husband, I had scarcely the time to agree with her request before Doctor Watson himself emerged from the house.

"Mary what are you doing- oh! Lestrade." He shook my hand heartily. "What a surprise! Would you like to come in?"

"Well," Mrs Watson caught my eye behind her husband's back and shook her head sharply, "I was actually hoping you might want to come out... Dinner?"

"Oh yes John, you should go," Mrs Watson said quickly. "The fresh air would do you some good and it will be nice to have the house alone to myself for a little bit."

Watson looked between the two of us warily. I wondered if perhaps he had twigged onto our - or, rather, Mrs Watson's - plan. "Alright... I shall just grab my hat and coat then."

 _Thank you_ , Mrs Watson mouthed as her husband and I headed off. It was one of the last times I saw her, but her memory remained ever present in the tradition of weekly dinners between Doctor Watson and I which continued well after she'd passed.


	6. Cats and Dogs

From Winter Winks 221 - a cat's tongue deceives, a dog's tongue is stilled through honesty

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"She's moine and oi have adoption papers and everythin' to show it Mister 'Olmes!" Archie, the youngest of the Irregulars, clutched the squirming, bedgraggled cat to his chest. To my left Watson eyed the fresh scratches on Archie's arms warily. "So if you try 'n take her off me oi'll call Scotland Yard on yew!"

A clamour of young voices rose to back up his bold-faced lie and I looked in some panic towards Watson, whose moustache twitched with amusement.

"Now boys," he stepped forward to address them, "We don't want to take it-"

"Her!"

" _Her_ ," he amended hastily. "We don't want to take her off you _._ But you must understand that if you want to keep it - her - then you won't be able to come into 221B again. Mrs Hudson would never agree to a feral animal in the house."

"She ain't ferril!" Wiggins shouted, just as the cat yowled and swiped at Archie's cheek. "She just needs to be trained!"

Watson sighed theatrically. " I just don't think Mrs Hudson will see it that way. But if you don't _want_ the mince pies she's made for you all today, then I suppose..."

"Mince pies?" Archie yelped. He looked down at the cat in his arms then to his friends. They formed a huddle to confer, but of course the outcome had been decided as soon as Watson mentioned mince pies.

Archie let the cat go, and watched mournfully as it - _she_ \- ran off into the shadows.

* * *

I didn't understand why Holmes had asked the Irregulars to assemble in our living room. The case had been solved less than an hour before, what could he need them for now?

The children filed sensibly into the living room - they had learnt to be on their best behaviour when Mrs Hudson was in - and within thirty seconds little Archie had spotted Toby the dog who sat patiently in one corner. The dog had, less than an hour before, tracked down our culprit.

"Mr 'Olmes!" Archie gasped,"'oos that!"

"That is Toby," Holmes replied, "and, if you promise to take care, you may play with him this afternoon."

"We'll be careful Mr 'Olmes!"

"We promise!"

"Alright then." The boys fell upon the dog, but they followed Holmes's instructions and stroked the dog gently, feeding him odd treats from their pockets. I doubted Toby had ever been as pampered!

"Brain without a heart indeed," I murmured under my breath. I hadn't intended for Holmes to hear, but he shot me a dirty look and refused to speak with me for the rest of the afternoon.


	7. Trivial

From Wordwielder - Trivial

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I do believe that Mrs Mary Watson would have made a good detective if ever the whim had taken her (and indeed if our society allowed women to explore such avenues of work.) It was her ability to notice the seemingly-trivial that most struck me, something I first discovered one Christmas when the Watsons invited Mrs Hudson and I to their new home in Kensington.

"Now Mr. Holmes, I know you don't like gifts," she said to me, producing a small package wrapped in brown paper. "But I saw this and simply knew you needed it."

I accepted the parcel warily. She was correct that I did not enjoy being given gifts. Too often I was left with something superfluous I had no use or desire for, but with an obligation to make use of the gift. An unwanted gift from a distant great aunt was the reason I used a persian slipper as a tobacco holder (the other half of the pair had been discarded at some point or other).

I thanked Mrs. Watson nonetheless - it was the thought that counted after all - and set to opening the gift. Once I saw what it was I was rendered quite speechless.

"I noticed you were late when you came to visit last week," she said cheerfully, not noticing my awe as I raised the pocket watch by its chain, "So I thought you might need it."

"You are... entirely correct," I responded, nonplussed. "Thank you."

"You have already said that," Watson gibed with a twinkle in his eye. Clearly he knew me well enough to see I was impressed. "My own gift is a little less lasting - some of your favourite tobacco, perhaps we could partake in the other room and talk for a while?"


	8. Reunion on Dartmoor

From mrspencil - Reunion on Dartmoor

* * *

"Thank you so much for allowing me back into your home, Henry."

The baronet clasped my shoulder warmly and took my case from me, despite my protests.

"Nonsense Doctor, it's wonderful to see you."

We passed the carriage ride from the train station in contented conversation, and it was only as Baskerville Hall came into view that Henry broached the difficult topic.

"I heard about Mr Holmes," he said, delicately, with a sideways glance. "I really am very sorry. I owe him a great debt for the work he did for me."

I smiled wanly. "So many owe him so much, myself included." I looked out towards the peat moor and recalled that night all those years ago, the unearthly howling... yes, this would do nicely. "But I'm writing again-"

"Oh I am so glad to hear it!" Henry cried, evidently before he could stop himself for he blushed a startling shade of scarlet and clamped his mouth shut immediately.

I chuckled heartily. "You're a fan of my work?"

"I've read one or two," he admitted. "The new staff at the Hall have all been rather thrilled to know we had the real Sherlock Holmes come to stay with us. I can't imagine the excitement if the adventure were to be _published."_

"Well I'm not sure about published-" I began, but Henry was already chattering away excitedly. No harm in indulging him, I thought to myself, and the rest of the trip was spent in animated discussion on structuring the, as-yet-unwritten, novella.


	9. Trip to Leeds

From Book girl fan - Trip to Leeds.

* * *

"Watson pack your bags, I have booked us a holiday!

I narrowed my eyes. It is always best to be suspicious of everything when Sherlock Holmes is involved.

"For the purpose of which case?"

He clutched at his chest as though wounded. "Case? No case, Watson! Merely an opportunity to rest."

"Hm." I eyed him closely. He was an excellent liar, it was true. "I don't believe you. Where have you booked for us to go?"

Here he paused, shuffling his feet. "Well now, the train tickets were quite limited old fellow and-"

" _Where,_ Holmes?"

He huffed. "Alright then. Leeds."

I thought for a moment.

"The smuggler case?"

He pursed his lips into a childlike pout and muttered mulishly, "No."

I thought for another moment.

"You think the base of operations is in Leeds, because of how prolific the wool industry is. That's why the body had those fibres."

He blinked at me. "Why is it that your deductive reasoning sharpens at the moments that it is least useful to me?"

I barked a laugh and went to pack my bags for our not-quite-holiday.


	10. Prank

From cjnwriter - A prank goes wrong.

* * *

"It was only meant in good fun," Lestrade chided, but there was no real heat to his words. "Constable Rogers-"

"Will never make Inspector." Holmes peered through a small lense at some soil on the victim's trouser leg. "It isn't as though Watson's army background is a secret."

"Well, no, but with his shoulder and leg so- ah, Doctor!" Lestrade coughed, throwing Holmes a warning look that went literally over the detective's head as he moved onto an examination of the fingernails. "How er... How is Rogers?"

Watson looked suitably embarrassed. "The shoulder was dislocated, but I've popped it back in and given him something for the pain. I really am so sorry Lestrade, I simply hadn't expected the Constable to sneak up on me like that!"

"He's a silly lad, no need to worry Doctor."

"Might we please get back to the matter at hand?" Holmes demanded, gesturing to the body on the floor. "Watson I need your opinion on the time of death."

With another, hastier apology, Watson excused himself to do as Holmes asked.

The misjudged prank was forgotten, but word soon spread swiftly until everyone at the Yard came to understand that Doctor John Watson was every bit as formidable as Mr Sherlock Holmes.


	11. All Roads Lead Home

From cjnwriter - "At Christmas, all roads lead home." - Majorie Holmes

* * *

My black moods have always been, and I do not romanticise as my dear friend Watson does, something terrible. My brother does not understand them, but at least views them with the same long-suffering acceptance he does all his younger brother's irregularities. Him aside, only Watson has shown patience and understanding when I find myself deep in doldrums.

The issue, of course, is that Watson has been away on honeymoon these past two weeks. He returns today (as already mentioned he is a romantic and could not resist carrying the new Mrs Watson over the threshold on Christmas Eve), but will be consumed with his new household. As he should be, of course.

This holiday never used to hold any great significance for me. I am by no means a religious man. Yet Watson's own enthusiam for the holiday - his insistence on a tree, decorations, and Christmas feast of Dickensian proportions - has infected me. Without him I have none of the motivation to follow through on all that by myself though. I have no motivation for anything in particular.

I close my eyes and resolve to fall asleep right there, in my armchair. I will hope for better things tomorrow.

* * *

"Holmes... Holmes, wake up dear chap!"

I squint in some disbelief at the face hovering above me.

"But you're on your honeymoon!"

A warm chuckle. "We got back yesterday. Mary is just on a visit to Mrs Forrester, but she'll be here any minute and Mrs Hudson has been cooking the turkey. Now get out of that dressing gown! I must tell you all about Rome-"


	12. Silent Christmas

From Book girl fan - A Silent Christmas.

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We lay beside each other in deathly silence. The only noise was the occasional creak of bed-springs and the relentless ticking of the clock above the fireplace. I could not see the clock face through the darkness, but I knew it was late. We had lain here, like this, for hours.

I shifted onto my side and stroked her arm, an action I knew would sometimes lull her to slumber.

"It's too quiet." The whisper was like glass shattering.

"I know."

Our house should have been loud and full. There should have been a howling baby in the nursery opposite, filling every inch of our home with her blessed presence. How could it be that we were left only with this gaping chasm of hush?

Beneath my hand Mary trembled and, for the rest of that Christmas night, we held each other in our grief and in our silence.


	13. Sharp

From Kitschgeist - Sharp

* * *

"Then I will meet you at, say, 7 o'clock ish?"

"Ish?" Watson's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, 7 o'clock." Holmes waved his hand airily. "Or thereabouts."

Watson raised a brow. "You did not list shoddy timekeeping as one of your flaws when we took rooms together. I have served in the military, you know."

Holmes frowned. Of course he knew. "I fail to see how-"

"Accurate timekeeping can mean the difference between life or death," Watson said in a clipped tone that sounded more of an officer in command than an army medic. "We will meet at 7 o'clock, sharp."

"We are not in a warzone now," Holmes scoffed. "What do a few minutes mean to us?"

"You are investigating a murder, are you not?"

"Ah. Indeed." Duly chastised, Holmes corrected himself. "7 o'clock then. Sharp."


	14. Don't touch it!

From Book girl fan - "Don't touch it!"

* * *

"Don't touch it!"

I froze, my hand hovering an inch away from the item in question. "Poisoned?"

"No."

"Diseased?"

"No."

"Experiment?"

"No."

I quirked an inquisitive brow. "Then what is it?"

"Mrs Hudson's finest." Holmes took the teapot gingerly from under my still-poised hand. "A replacement for the one I broke last week."

"Ah." I nodded and let my hand fall back to my side. "Best get it to her with all due haste."


	15. Dubious

From mrspencil - Watson learns a new skill

* * *

"Come now Holmes, it isn't so bad!"

"You told me you nearly hit a child last week."

"Well, _nearly..._ "

"And the postman last month?"

"Now that was simply not my fault!"

"Frankly, Watson, I have no interest in such modern inventions."

"You said that about the telephone and if I had allowed you to dissuade me from installing one in your cottage then we would not be able to talk right now!"

A pause on the line.

"Well?"

"... you make a fair point."

"Aha!"

"But does it really have to be _you_ who drives?"

There was some indignant spluttering.

"Well do not do yourself an injury Watson, I was simply _enquiring-"_

"You were making a slight upon my character!"

"Not your character, dear fellow, merely your recently acquired and, if you do not mind me saying so, somewhat dubious driving abilities."

"I do mind you saying so!"

"It is just, what with the postman..."

"That was not my fault!"

"And the child?"

"Very small. And I only _nearly_ hit him."

"My, what a triumph."

"Holmes!" There was a smile in Watson's voice. "I could teach you, you know. If you think your ability any less 'dubious' than my own."

"No, no that is quite alright. I shall leave the driving to you. Now when will you be coming to Sussex?"


	16. That Never Was

From Kitschgeist - The _ that never was

* * *

"Thank you for your help." The army surgeon pumped his hand up and down enthusiastically. "Truthfully the skills you possess are quite amazing!"

Holmes smiled thinly back, not too sure how to react to this blatant admiration. "It is simple once you know how."

"If you say so." The surgeon let Holmes's hand drop and reached into his pocket to pull out a hefty envelope. "Your payment."

Holmes was suspicious as he accepted the payment. "This is nearly double what was agreed, Doctor..."

"I know, but you have earned it and I am not wanting." Holmes had already deduced the man's impressive military history and successes, so he shrugged and took the money. "You live alone?"

"I have had flatmates," Holmes said carelessly, pushing the envelope of money into his dressing gown pocket. "I am not the easiest to live with, so once I was earning enough I decided to rent the place myself. I use the spare room for my experiments."

The surgeon's eyebrows rose. "Experiments... dare I ask?"

"I am sure it would not interest you," Holmes said, although every question the surgeon had put to him thus far had seemed born of genuine curiousity. "The maid will be happy to show you out, Doctor Watson."

"Oh please, after all the help you have given me you must call me John."

Holmes frowned. "That is quite alright, Doctor. Best of luck with your new practice."

Doctor Watson laughed. "I shall not bother asking how you knew about that. Until next time, Mr Holmes."

 _Next time?_ Holmes thought to himself as Watson left. _What a peculiar thing to say._

* * *

 **A/N:** I decided to go with "The bullet that never was"; i.e. the bullet that invalided Watson from the army!


	17. Welcome to the Club

From Kitschgeist - Welcome to the club

* * *

"Why have you been to see my brother?"

Watson glanced up in some surprise from his newspaper. "I have done no such thing."

Holmes regarded him from his armchair with deep suspicion. "You need not lie to me, Watson. I can see from the splashes of mud on your trousers that you have been through St James's Park, far out of your normal route to work and I recognise the smell of Mycroft's very particular blend of Jasmine tea, to be found only at his club. You told Mrs Hudson not to cook you supper so you drank tea and ate dinner with him at The Diogenes. The one thing I cannot fathom is _why?_ "

"I did go to The Diogenes," Watson answered slowly, folding his newspaper away. "But I did not visit Mycroft."

"Oh." Holmes was taken aback. "Well then who did you visit?"

"No one! I am a member and wished to spend some time there."

Holmes blinked. "Excuse me?"

Watson laughed. "I thought you knew! It was Mycroft who invited me to join."

"When did this happen?"

Watson's expression sobered. "After Mary passed. I was rather lonely and happened to bump into Mycroft. He recommended The Diogenes."

"You felt the best place to find companionship was in a gentleman's club whose emphasis is placed on absolute silence?"

Watson opened his mouth to answer then closed it again. He thought for a moment. "Hm. Yes, it does sound odd when you say it like that. I suppose it was the sense of being a part of something. Having people near me, even if I did not speak to or even really know them."

Truthfully, Holmes did not understand the appeal, but far be it for him to challenge Watson's grieving process. "And today?"

"You said you would be in France until next Tuesday," Watson reminded him. "I pay for my membership and thought it would be a good opportunity to get my money's worth."

"Hm." Holmes doubted that was the only reason, but again he kept his thoughts to himself. "I will take you next time, by the way."

"To France?"

"Well, wherever the next case abroad might be. It was quite dull."

The _without you_ was unspoken, but Watson heard it all the same. The next month he cancelled his membership at the Diogenes.


	18. 50 Wishes

From Winter Winks 221 - 50 wishes

* * *

 **A/N:** Blimey, it was difficult coming up with the all 50..!

* * *

 **1.**

Sherlock wishes the Doctors would stop lying; he is eleven years old, not an idiot. It is Mycroft in the end who "breaks the news", but both brothers have known for a long time that mother is dying.

 **2.**

John wishes father didn't drink so much and that he was a doctor so he could help fix the bruises on mother's face. He tells his brother Henry, who holds him when he cries and doesn't even call him a baby for it.

 **3.**

Easygoing, friendly and with a case for Holmes to turn his mind to... he wishes there were more people like Victor Trevor at his university.

 **4.**

Watson, desperately trying not to think about his mother or his father or the illness that had taken them, wishes for an adventure somewhere far away.

 **5.**

Holmes, bored and longing to pursue a life of detective work, wishes his degree would go faster.

 **6.**

When Watson visits home only to find Henry soused in the local pub, he wishes his father had better divided the will. He is sure that by now the family inheritance has been squandered entirely on whisky and the betting tables.

 **7.**

Holmes does not miss his father, who never understood either of his sons, but he does wish the stroke was better timed. He misses his final exam for the funeral and will have to resit in the summer.

 **8.**

Watson wishes someone was there to wave him goodbye as he boards the ship, but at least he is headed into a throng of men who yearn for the same excitement and camaraderie that he does.

 **9.**

Holmes wishes it was easier to convince Scotland Yard that his methods have merit. The only one who even pretends to listen is that Lestrade fellow, but he does so from politeness rather than respect and is frightfully bull-headed to boot.

 **10.**

As Murray murmurs reassurances in his ear, monotone under the whine of bullets behind them, Watson wishes only that he will survive long enough to see his brother again.

 **11.**

Holmes wishes London rent weren't so damn expensive! Or perhaps just that his clients paid more...

 **12.**

As he disembarks at Portsmouth, Watson wishes there there was someone there to greet him. Or that Henry would at least write him back...

 **13.**

The ill-repute of Montague Street is enough to drive any well-paying clients away and Holmes wishes he could afford to move.

 **14.**

The room has a draft and the blankets are threadbare. Watson shivers and wishes he could afford a better hotel.

 **15.**

Holmes wishes his new flatmate would find something to occupy his time. It is not that the occasional shouts in the night really bother him, only that he is sure the nightmares would stop if the convalescent Doctor had something to set his mind to during the day.

 **16.**

He wanders what exactly this Holmes chap does that has him running in and out of their rooms at all hours of the day. Truthfully he wishes for anything that will distract him from his memories and he ponders this quandary for many days.

 **17.**

Holmes wishes he had seen Watson fight before now. As the still convalescent ex-army medic throws himself upon Jefferson Hope, he can see how this unassuming man made it out of Maiwand alive.

 **18.**

Watson wishes Holmes weren't so self-effacing about his work and the papers would advertise _his_ name rather than Gregson or Lestrade's. He picks up a pen that evening and sets to writing.

 **19.**

It is purely practical, for he has discovered his brain works easier with the use of a sounding board, but Holmes finds himself fervently wishing that Watson will be rejected for reenlistment.

 **20.**

Watson holds a letter in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, reading the lines of his rejection and wishing he could turn back time. It is only when Holmes stumbles in, bruised and bleeding from an encounter with a particularly angry criminal, that he considers he may still be useful after all.

 **21.**

Holmes wishes he knew how to snap Watson out of whatever fugue he has fallen into. Black moods are _his_ forte, not his flatmate's!

 **22.**

Watson wishes his brother's life amounted to more than his gambling debts and their grandfather's old pocket watch.

 **23.**

Occasionally Holmes find himself viciously wishing he lived alone so that he might be rid of Watson's incessant mother henning!

 **24.**

Watson has already lost one brother to alcohol and he wishes fervently that he will not lose another to the needle.

 **25.**

Holmes knows Watson would have taken her case on alone if he had to, but bitterly and irrationally he still finds himself wishing he had never offered to help Miss Mary Morstan.

 **26.**

Watson wishes Holmes would show some more interest in his upcoming nuptials, or at least confirm that he would be the best man!

 **27.**

As they depart on their honeymoon, Holmes wishes the newlyweds happiness and throws himself into his work.

 **28.**

Watson certainly has his suspicions, but he wishes he knew for certain who had anonymously prepaid the hotel room.

 **29.**

Holmes wishes he had time to visit the Watsons' new house in Paddington, but there is a pattern emerging between several of his recent cases and he thinks he may have stumbled upon something monumental.

 **30.**

Watson returns home late and excitedly babbles the details of the case to Mary, who listens with fond patience. She wishes the practice left her husband more time to see his old friend, for he is always so bright and happy after some time with Mr Holmes.

 **31.**

This is a dangerous affair that could well be the end of both of them. Holmes wishes Watson had not been dragged into this, but still he is glad to have his friend at his side.

 **32.**

Taking in his friend's haggard complexion and weary expression, Watson wishes Holmes had sought to share this burden earlier. Now, at least, he can work at keeping the detective safe.

 **33.**

Holmes hears Watson's desperate cries of his names and wishes he could reveal himself, but to do so would put both their lives in danger. He witnesses his friend's devastation in silence.

 **34.**

Watson spends hours turning it over in his head and wishing desperately for Holmes's intellect, so he might conceive a way that his friend could have survived such a terrible fall.

 **35.**

Holmes wishes many times that he could write to Watson, but the desire is never so strong as when he reads Mary Watson's obituary from a newspaper cutting sent from Mycroft eight months before.

 **36.**

Elspeth Anna, named for both their mothers, is a tiny miracle with shining blue eyes. Watson wishes Mary could have known her longer.

 **37.**

As Watson turns white and crumples to the floor, Holmes wishes he had revealed himself in some other way.

 **38.**

Betrayal, joy, and lingering grief all clamour for attention as Watson takes the sight of Holmes in. What he most wishes, however, is that Holmes could have returned in time to meet baby Elspeth.

 **39.**

Things have changed in the intervening years and, though emotions are not his strong point, Holmes wishes he knew how to help Watson through his grief.

 **40.**

Sometimes Watson wishes he could burn his Kensington house to the ground and run off to a far away adventure as he once tried in his youth. A practitioner named Verner offers to purchase his practice and he decides he might settle for Baker Street instead.

 **41.**

Holmes is usually detached from the fate of the criminals he apprehends, but when he learns Evans has been sentenced to life in prison he finds himself viciously wishing he had been hanged instead.

 **42.**

In the aftermath of the Killer Evans case Watson feels a vindictive pleasure that Holmes has experienced a taste of what he went through that terrible day at the falls. The feeling fades fast when he notices the lingering fear in his friend's gaze whenever it settles on him and he starts to wish for a new case to distract them both.

 **43.**

Holmes wishes to retire from detective work and keep bees in the Sussex countryside and he is most affronted when the very notion of such a thing sends Watson into a hearty burst of laughter.

 **44.**

Watson has no urge to retire just yet, but he does wish Holmes would get over his fear of all things modern and install a telephone in his cottage. It would certainly make keeping in touch between counties easier...

 **45.**

If what Mycroft predicts is true, which it always is, then Holmes has a duty to his country and those who reside within it to take up the offered task. He only wishes he didn't have to leave England, and Watson, behind.

 **46.**

When Holmes tells him he is leaving, and why, Watson briefly wishes that they were both more selfish. He pushes the thought away and wishes his friend luck, knowing he would never have it any other way and certain they will see each other again in due course.

 **47.**

After all these years Mycroft has learnt that neither he nor the rest of the British government can refuse Sherlock anything; when Holmes wishes Watson to be with him in the final two months of his undercover mission as 'Altamont' it is done with the minimum of fuss.

 **48.**

Watson wishes he were young and fit enough to be of use to the war effort, but Holmes reminds him of his pivotal role in the capture of Von Bork and at last the old Doctor gives in and moves his things down to Sussex.

 **49.**

If Holmes were to wish for anything, it would be for a little more time. Three years, perhaps, to balance the scales. Otherwise, he is content.

 **50.**

His friend by his side and the rest of what remains of their lives spread out before them, Watson wishes for nothing more than what he has.


	19. A New Companion

From cjnwriter - Either Holmes or Watson (your choice) is unavailable, but the game's afoot! Who comes instead?

* * *

The sound of frenzied knocking on the front door jolted Mrs Mary Watson awake and, having fallen asleep in the sitting room whilst waiting for her husband to return from a late night emergency, she was at first disorientated. The insistent bangs continued and she sprang to her feet, glancing to the clock on the mantelpiece as she went to answer; John should have been home by now.

It was not the first time Mr Sherlock Holmes had arrived so late on their doorstep, but usually it was John himself who answered the door.

"Where is Watson?"

Mary was unoffended by his brusque tone. Holmes could be waspish at times, but he rarely treated her with anything less than civility. Something must be wrong. "He is on a late night call."

Holmes swore, then looked rather mortified to have done so in front of her.

She smiled at his sheepish expression. "Do come in, Mr Holmes. You can wait for John."

"No, no there is no time." He paced agitatedly across the front doorstep. "Blast! Blast it all! Do you have any idea when he will return?"

"I am afraid not. I would have expected him back an hour ago, but it was a premature birth and there's no telling..." She trailed off, for it was clear that Holmes was no longer listening, fretting to himself and wringing his hands in agitation. "Mr Holmes, do tell me what is wrong."

He ceased his pacing and sighed. "Very well, there is nothing I can do without Watson here anyway. What a damned shame."

At her beckoning, he stepped into the entrance hallway and hung his coat. The gaslight threw his drawn face into sharp relief.

"You look exhausted."

He smiled thinly. "It has been a long case, one I had hoped to conclude tonight. Unfortunately I require Watson's language skills."

"Language?" It was the first she had heard of this. "What language?"

"Hindustani." He scrubbed a hand across his face and followed her into the living room, where he sank gratefully into an armchair. "Far from fluent, but I believe he has enough of a grasp."

"Mr Holmes..." She began to smile. "You are aware I spent the first ten years of my life in India?"

His head snapped toward her and he straightened in his chair. "Oh. Well, of course. I simply didn't think-"

"My _ayah_ spoke to me more in Hindustani than in English growing up. Could I be of assistance?"

Holmes hesitated. "I am not sure that would be wise, Mrs Watson. Allow me to explain. I have been attempting to link two rather dangerous individuals to a string of murders. They are both ex-soldiers who served in India and when I followed them to an inn in Soho earlier tonight they were speaking in Hindustani. Each murder victim was missing a single item of jewellery, and I was hoping Watson might be able to translate and-"

"Find the missing items." Mary nodded. "Very well then, let's leave immediately."

He looked at her, aghast. "Mrs Watson, I could not possibly drag the wife of my dear friend all the way out to Soho in the middle of the night. It is not a place for anyone respectable, least of all a lady as yourself."

"I have been in far less respectable places, as I am sure you well know Mr Holmes."

He had the grace to look embarrassed, having seen almost from the instant he met her that she had spent some time in the workhouse. Watson had confirmed the suspicion early on in their courtship. "I didn't... that is, I wasn't sure-"

She raised a hand. "What's past is past. My point is that if all you need is someone to listen to these gentlemen and tell you what they say. It is no problem."

" What of Watson? When he returns here and you are gone?"

"He may not be back for hours yet, and I will leave a note," she reassured, going to scribble one out. "Heaven knows he has done it enough times to me!"

Holmes worried at his lip as he considered Mary's offer.

"I really am not sure..."

"Really Mr Holmes! Tell him it was my idea if you must, but we are wasting time." Mary attached the note to the living room door, then went to throw on her coat. "Are you ready?"

Holmes was utterly dumbfounded, something quite rare for him, but recovered swiftly. "Yes. Yes, of course. The game is afoot!"


	20. Responsibility

From Wordwielder - Responsibility

* * *

"Holmes please-"

"No."

"But if you could just-"

" _No."_

Watson huffed and crossed his arms, slumping back into the sofa with a petulant pout. His little puppy hopped up beside him with a yip and he sighed.

"I am not doing it out of mean spiritedness," Holmes said, a little gentler although his words were somewhat belied by the glare he directed at the pup. "I take full credit for nearly everything that goes awry in these rooms, do I not? The chemical experiments, the bullet holes, all four of Mrs Hudson's broken teapots-"

"Five."

"Five then," he amended dismissively. "I freely admit that I was at fault for all of that and I have borne the consequences and punishment. However, that puppy and all its wrongdoings are solely _your_ responsibility."

"I know that," Watson grumbled, scratching behind the pup's ears. "But Mrs Hudson is far less likely to throw _you_ out than the puppy!"

"You think so? Besides which, how would I even explain it? I can't exactly say that _I_ chewed her curtains!"

"Well..."

"Watson, really!"


	21. Lestrade in the Know

From Kitschgeist - Masks

* * *

" _Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes. "The fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this case."_

The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton

* * *

It was not the first time that Mr Holmes had turned down one of my offerings, but as I turned to leave I spotted something. In the fireplace, which had not been lit owing to the warmth of the morning, there was a scrap of black material. It was singed, but not badly, and as I leant in closer I saw it may well have been...

"Mr Holmes."

"Yes, Lestrade?"

He remained as suave and unaffected than ever, a string of smoke curling languidly from his pipe as he reclined. Over in his own chair, Doctor Watson was firmly ensconced behind his newspaper.

"You are sure you're not interested?" I asked carefully. "As you have frequently said, I am not so observant as you. I may well-" I spared a deliberate glance to the fireplace, then back to him, and fancied I saw his Adam's apple bob up and down in an uneasy gulp. "- _miss_ something."

"You should have more faith in your abilities, Inspector." His lips jerked in a shaky half-smile. "I trust in your judgement wholeheartedly."

We stared at one another for a few more moments.

"Very well then," I spoke eventually. "Farewell, Mr Holmes. Doctor."

I swivelled on my heel and marched out, pointedly _not_ looking to the half burnt silk mask in the fireplace.


	22. Mrs Hudson, Master Manipulator

From I'm Nova - Wishes of the season

* * *

 **A/N:** Even more wishes!

* * *

"What are those in your pocket, Mrs Hudson?"

She tutted at him, laying down the coffee she had brought up upon his request. "How you can see through the material of my dress to what is in my pockets does not bear thinking of Mr Holmes."

"II have no wish to see beneath the material of your dress, I assure you," he informed her with an impish grin. "I simply heard the rustling of papers."

"Hm." She sounded unconvinced, but poured him his coffee all the same. "It is from those street urchins of yours."

"The Irregulars?"

"The same. I got them all to write their Christmas wishes so they could practice their spelling." She pulled a sheet of paper out, and began to read. "'I wish Mr Holmes would use Toby the dog for one of his cases so we could play with him again.'"

"That should be easy enough to manage." He stood and went to take some more of the wish lists, rifling through them swiftly. "Hmm... 'I wish I could meet Father Christmas'. That one might prove tricky, but not impossible..."

"Why Mr Holmes, you have a heart after all."

"As you well knew when you brought these papers in with you." He eyed her in mock suspicion. "You may not be a detective, Mrs Hudson, but you are certainly a master manipulator."

"I have to be, with the odd people in these rooms." She swept out before he had the chance to fashion a witty response. "I shall be up for the tray later, Mr Holmes!"


	23. Squeak

From Wordwielder - Squeak

* * *

It should have been the squeaking that started it, but the issue was that Mr Holmes rarely slept anyway and so had no reason to notice the noises in his room. The living room they mainly kept away from, probably scared away by all his violin music and other racket, and Doctor Watson's room had stayed empty ever since his marriage. It was only when I was awoken by Mr Holmes's unusually unsteady bellow and hurried upstairs to check the poor man was not being murdered by some vengeful criminal in the middle of night that I realised we had a mouse problem.

The sight was quite comical, it had to be said. He was squatted in his bed, long limbs drawn up so as to resemble some strange insect, clutching his dressing gown about him and watching two of the furry menaces as they disappeared into a barely visible hole in the corner by his wardrobe. It had been a particularly biting winter, so really it was no wonder that they had come in looking for somewhere to shelter. Still I wasn't sure if I believed his claim that there had been 23 of them in his room when he woke up, but he seemed rather upset by the ordeal and so I did not challenge him.

"What I don't understand," Doctor Watson said the next day as he helped to set the traps (Mr Holmes had flat out refused to adopt a cat and I had to admit that with all his chemicals around it was probably a good idea), "Is why they went straight to Holmes's bedroom. Surely the kitchen..?"

"I keep all my food carefully bundled away. Mr Holmes, on the other hand, seems to leave a trail of crumbs whenever he has a meal."

"I can hear you, you know!" Mr Holmes grouched from his prone position on the sofa. When Watson had arrived he had unceremoniously dumped the traps into his arms and flung himself there, to catch up on the sleep he had missed the night before.

"Better than you could hear the mice squeaking at least," I murmured in an undertone, causing Mr Holmes to glare angrily as the comment sent Doctor Watson into a fit of giggles.


	24. Minor Adjustments

From Kitschgeist - Non-speaking role

* * *

"Lestrade tells me you got yourself into quite the row today," Watson chose his words carefully, for he could see his friend was fairly simmering with rage from the tense outline of his back as he bent over his latest chemical experiment. "With Mr Gillette?"

A grunt, which Watson took to be an agreement.

"About the play? You know I can always ask Dr Doyle to scrap it. I still own the rights."

"No need." Holmes moved one of his test tubes. "I have told Mr Gillette what he needs to do and I believe he will do it."

"Oh. Might I ask-"

"The play is ridiculous." Holmes swirled around and his expression was dour enough to wilt flowers. "Its flaws are truly too numerous to list, but I do not appreciate being given a love interest-"

"Oh dear."

"-or the gross misrepresentation of my dealings with Moriarty-"

"Mm."

"-or for the character of my dearest friend to be granted no lines whatsoever!"

Watson blinked. "Excuse me?"

He huffed and turned back to his experiment, ignoring the question. "Absolutely ridiculous. I may twit you about your writing Watson, but yours is a scientific _journal_ compared to the mess of this production."

Still dazed, Watson asked, "But you convinced him to make changes?"

"I had to pick my battles." Holmes sniffed, and refused to speak any more on the subject. When the play began to run, he did not attend.

Watson, on the other hand, went one night in secret. The love interest was there, Moriarty's portrayal remained inconsistent with reality; but the character of John H Watson was no longer a non-speaking role.

* * *

 **A/N** Loosely based on the actual Sherlock Holmes play (or what I found out about it on Wikipedia!) Also discovered Leonard Nimoy once played Sherlock Holmes onstage, for anyone interested...


	25. A Proposal

From Book girl fan - A proposal.

* * *

"Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson!"

I had been walking down Burleigh Street[1], my head turned against the wind although my bowed position quite reflected my morose state. I turned to face whoever was shouting my name.

"It is Doctor Watson, isn't it?" He was struggling to be heard over the mounting storm so, when I nodded that it was me, he pulled us both into a more sheltered side alley. Thanks to Holmes's teachings, I could see from the stain on his shirtsleeve that he was a Doctor as well.

"Have we met?"

"I saw you just now in the offices of the Strand. Dr Arthur Conan Doyle." We shook hands, both shivering in the brisk air. "I am ever so sorry they turned down your book proposal."

I shrugged, truthfully bitter from the encounter. I had essentially been laughed out of the office. "I should not be surprised. It is my first attempt, after all."

"Even so, I am intrigued by your story. I have some experience in publishing myself." He extended his card towards me. "Not much, I admit, but if you are looking for representation I would be keen to read your manuscript. There are other publications, after all[2]."

I took the card and turned it over curiously. "Indeed. I will give it some thought, Dr Doyle."

"Take your time, Dr Watson. I hope to hear from you."

We both went our separate ways, his card nestled safely in my overcoat pocket.

* * *

[1] Where The Strand Offices were originally located.

[2] Like Mrs Beeton's Christmas Annual!


	26. Revenge

From Wordwielder - Revenge

* * *

 **A/N:** A 3GAR AU, so technically a response to bcbdrums' old challenge..!

* * *

 _There are a few blurry attempts he will come to forget._

"Mr Holmes? Was that- did his hand-?"

"Watson? Watson! Are you- yes! Yes that's it! Mrs Hudson fetch a doctor!"

 _But they are important, for it is through these that his mind slowly coalesces._

"It will take time, Mr Holmes, and we cannot promise anything. With a head wound of this magnitude..."

"I understand, Doctor. Thank you."

 _Broken snatches of his favourite violin pieces and a few familiar voices swirl in and out._

"What is that you're reading to him?"

"Treasure Island." _There is something strange about that, but it escapes him_. "He read it to the Irregulars a few years back. Of course I do not perform it quite so compellingly."

"I am sure it will help nevertheless."

 _Eventually, with great effort, there comes light._

"Watson?"

"Doctor Watson?"

Shining grey eyes above him and the weathered hand of his landlady reaching out to grasp at where his fingers twitch upon a hospital-white coverlet.

"It is good to see you old fellow."

Watson stares at Holmes, long and hard; a promise. Then his eyes slip closed, for he is exhausted. They open many more times after that, a little longer each time until eventually-

* * *

"What happened?"

Holmes looks up from _Treasure Island_ , stopping mid-sentence. "You are awake! I should fetch Mrs Hudson..."

"I have been awake before." Watson is fairly sure of that. He remembers several instances, though they all blur into a series of questions about his name, the year, and the current prime minister.

"Never with such coherence," Holmes replies with a wry smile, but drops back into his chair for the time being. "How do you feel?"

Watson mulls this over. There is pain, but it is distant. He has been drugged then. Otherwise...

"Confused," he says, slowly. "There was a case? G- Garrideb?"

Holmes's expression darkens. "Over a month and a half ago now. We weren't sure if you... well, never mind that now. John Garrideb was a false identity contrived by James Winter."

"Killer Evans... Morecroft..." The words arrive with painstaking slowness and Watson is not entirely sure from where he has dredged them.

"Quite so. What else can you remember?"

Watson is struck suddenly by the image of John Garrideb's - James Winter's - face, peering out from above a trapdoor. "We found him? At Nathan Garrideb's house. We found him and..."

"He shot you." Holmes raises a long finger and, ever so gently, he traces the trajectory across Watson's skull to demonstrate. "One bullet winged your temporal bone. The other grazed your thigh."

"I don't remember that."

"It is just as well. When I saw what he had done to you..." He breathes in, deep, and offers Watson a stiff attempt at reassurance. "No need to dwell now. I will go a moment to get Mrs Hudson."

Then he is up on his feet and making for the door, but there is still something on Watson's mind. "Holmes, what happened to Winter?"

"Dead," Holmes throws carelessly over one shoulder. "Good riddens."

"Are you... alright?"

Holmes whirls back from the door with a faintly incredulous expression. "Am _I_ alright? You are the one who has been laid up in hospital for nearly two months!"

"Did you kill him?"

There is a pause. It is only half a second, but even with his still-healing mind, Watson catches it. He has always seen more of Holmes than anyone else bothers to look for.

"I shot him in the heart. Lestrade has written in his report that it was self defence."

"And was it?"

Mrs Hudson chooses that moment to enter. Watson has always felt she serves as a kind of surrogate mother to Holmes, but as she bursts promptly into tears of happiness and relief he knows for certain that the feeling extends to his own person as well. She sits with him while Holmes slips out to wire the Yard the good news and holds his hand tight in hers as though to convince herself he is really there.

As Watson recovers over the next few weeks, he tries desperately to remember the events of his shooting. There are occasions he thinks he might remember a distorted, shaking version of Holmes's voice.

" _You've killed him!"_

Or perhaps that is only his imagination; for he does not need to remember what happened to know that James's Winter's death was not carried out in the name of self-defence, but of revenge.


	27. The Underground

From Kitschgeist - Engineering

* * *

"You needn't have come, I am perfectly fine."

"Oh, well if I'd have known that..." Watson made to leave which set Holmes laughing, which in turn aggravated his lungs and had him coughing again. Watson poured him a glass of water and handed it across. "Yes, you are clearly in the prime of health."

"No need- f-for the pawky humour," Holmes managed around his coughs. "And truly it sounds worse than it is. I shall be up on my feet in no time."

"Back in Baker Street at any rate," Watson agreed. "The air there is as clear as a hospital. You shall have to cut back on the smoking, you know."

"It was not my tobacco, but the smog of the underground." Holmes set his glass aside, breathing easier now he had been rehydrated. "I am surprised it irritated my lungs so."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I cannot even leave you alone for one week without you getting yourself into trouble!"

"I was being remarkably safe! It was a simple case, Lestrade thought a death on the tracks was due to the poor woman being pushed. I wasn't to know it would be such a hazardous environment; I have hardly ever used the underground railway!" This final exclamation set Holmes reaching for his glass again. "And Lestrade's l- lungs were absolutely f-fine!"

"He is more used to going through the stations. And of course there is that new beard of his."

"Ugh, that horrid beard." Holmes shuddered and took another quick sip. "What has that to do with anything?"

"The conductors and other staff are recommended to grow beards to filter the air." [1]

Holmes's eyes practically popped out of his head. "Excuse me?!"

"It's true!" Watson started chuckling then. "It _is_ rather silly I suppose. I know you disapprove of electricity, Holmes, but I do think it will be a good thing when they can do away with all that steam and fog."

"I do not _disapprove_ of electricity, so much as I mistrust it..." Holmes cast a baleful eye to the bright light bulb that lit his hospital ward. "Although if it prevents facial hair of Lestrade's ilk, then I must confess you have a point."

Watson doubled over with increased laughter and Holmes joined in, alternately laughing, coughing, and choking down water between.

* * *

[1] Apparently this is a legit thing that happened?


	28. The Candy Cane Killer

From I'm Nova - Seasonal themed murder

* * *

"There has been a murder," Lestrade announced one snowy December day, without so much as a hello. "And we need your help, Mr Holmes."

Holmes sensed as well as I that the Inspector was deeply troubled by whatever he must have just seen at the scene of the crime. "Of course, but do sit down a moment. You seem quite shaken, Inspector. What are the details of the case?"

"Mr Holmes... It's _him._ "

Holmes tensed, his eyes turning suddenly haunted. I looked between them both in some confusion, for I had no idea who they were referring to

"It bears all the hallmarks," Lestrade continued grimly. "Tinsel down the throat, sugar traces in the wounds, a dusting of flour to look like snow."

Holmes was already up and on his feet. "We had best leave with all due haste then. Watson, I suggest you carry your revolver with you at all times from now on."

"Well certainly," I agreed in some surprise, as he shoved the gun into my hands. It was unlike my friend to be overly cautious. "But why?"

"Watson." Holmes's tone was deadly serious. "Have you ever heard of the Candy Cane Killer?"


	29. Flashback

From Winter Winks 221 - asylum

* * *

 **A/N:** This response spiralled wayyy out of control! Not really sure if I'm happy with it, but going to post anyway and perhaps edit later. Warnings for non-explicit mentions of PTSD (i.e. Victorian mentions back when they didn't know what it was), flashbacks, and awkward Holmes attempting to be the comfort to Watson's hurt. I'd also highly recommend reading Pompey's _A Young British Soldier_ if you have time, which does a far better job of dealing with this content than I could ever hope to.

* * *

He was only young, but then they were all young really. John himself was only in his twenties. And what did age matter anyway, now he had seen his comrades die before him? Scores and scores of men. _Good_ men. It was kill or be killed. The usual laws of society did not apply out here.

"Watson, get a hold of yourself!"

That voice - strident, cultured - did not fit with the Maiwand native who stood before him with a Khyber knife raised and ready to attack. John's - _Watson's_ \- grip on the gun loosened. He closed his eyes, but the smell was still there. The smell of fever, _his_ fever, like bread left out to rise.

But wait. The fever came long after this. So how..?

"Stay back!"

The native had shifted forward, but froze as Watson's eyes snapped open and his grip tightened on his revolver. He knew how this went. Already he could picture the bullet ripping through the forehead in front of him, imploding the man's face. The man who was _oh so young. Too young._ Then the sickening _thud_ of the dead body hitting the ground. The heat beating down in time to the pulse beating in his ears, as it never would again for the man he had just killed.

" _Watson._ You are safe, I promise you."

But this was different. For an instant John cast his eyes about and it was as if the image of the Afghan desert were superimposed on some other place. Dark, cold and damp in that way so distinct to Great Britain. And of course before the native had not hesitated. Certainly he had not spoken to John - _Watson_ \- in a voice he so recognised.

He looked back, but now the native was gone and Sherlock Holmes stood in his place. The courtyard - _London, not Maiwand_ \- was dark and Holmes's eyes darted between Watson and the gun he still held. In an instant of realisation and disgust, Watson flung it far into a shadowy corner, then grasped his hands together to steady them. His breaths came in shallow gasps but he didn't focus on this, for if he did he knew he was liable to forget how to breathe altogether.

"Watson?" There was a light touch to his shoulder. It was his right shoulder, not the left (which ached as much as it had in Peshawar), but even so he tore himself violently away. "Steady on old man."

Slowly Watson's self awareness reasserted itself. He continued to knead his hands together for something, _anything_ to keep his body occupied, but now he looked wildly around. There was an open door nearby, under a sign that read _WALTER AND SONS BAKERY_ , with light shining from it and distant voices murmuring inside. How many had seen him like this?

"I sent Mr Walter and Inspector Hopkins away," Holmes said, and _of course_ he had guessed what Watson was thinking. "Once I saw you were... not yourself."

Watson felt a laugh bubbling up at that, but pushed it down. He had quite enough to deal with without hysterics.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm not mad," Watson blurted out, because Sherlock Holmes was not one to enquire after another person's well-being. Not if they were anything less than bleeding out in front of him, that was.

"I know, Watson." Something softened in Holmes's expression. "I know."

Heat rose in Watson's face and the smell of baking bread coated his nostrils and-

"Let's go to Baker Street," Holmes suggested, which was fortunate because in another silent minute or so Watson would have been back in Afghanistan. "Just wait here a moment."

Watson assumed he would go to tell Hopkins and Mr Walter - the man whose bakery had been robbed, the reason they found themselves here - that he was leaving, but instead he went to retrieve Watson's revolver. He offered it to Watson who jerked away before he could stop himself. Holmes shrugged and pocketed the gun himself.

"May I?" He reached to take Watson's arm in his own, pausing an inch away as if to ask for permission.

"Y- Yes." What more damage could be wrought? Holmes had already seen the worst of it, after all. "Thank you."

They went to hail a cab, Holmes's iron grip keeping Watson upright on unsteady legs.

* * *

Holmes's curious gaze practically dissected the top of Watson's bowed head, as if in hope that through doing so he might learn the inner workings of his friend's mind. It was only recently the detective had returned to London and three years apart had changed both men. In reverse of their customary roles, Holmes had followed Watson's example and - aside from requesting that Mrs Hudson bring them up a pot of sweet tea - lapsed into silence.

Watson sat with a cup of the tea cradled in his hands, as he had been for the last half an hour.

"I am sorry about the case," he spoke up, abruptly.

"It doesn't matter. I will return there tomorrow." The drizzle that had started up just as they arrived at Baker Street would likely wash away any useful evidence. "Do not trouble yourself."

"Right. Well, thank you." Watson winced as he took a sip of the now-cold tea. He set the cup aside. "And thank you as well for- well, for noticing. And I'm sorry for- with the gun. Usually it isn't so..."

"Usually?" Holmes enquired as Watson trailed off. "You mean to say such a thing has happened before?"

Watson nodded, face flushing.

"Many times?"

"Enough." There were volumes spoken in that one word. Watson shifted uncomfortably upon the sofa. "Not so often now."

"It started... while I was away?"

Watson laughed bitterly. "No, no. Long before that. Ever since Maiwand."

Holmes's forehead creased. "I would have noticed."

"I worked to keep it from you." Watson hesitated then. "I thought- I feared..."

"Watson?"

"I feared that if you found out you would not keep lodgings with me," Watson admitted in an embarrassed rush. "I would have nowhere to live and eventually be forced into some- some lunatic asylum. You didn't know me so well then," he added, as Holmes made to protest. "Even now, perhaps it is just as well I have my Kensington house."

"There will always be a place for you here," Holmes insisted sharply. "Nothing about tonight changes that. And I may not have witnessed any of these... episodes... before, but I have not been entirely blind to the effects of your time in the army."

"The dreams?"

'Dreams' was something of an understatement, but Holmes did not argue the point. "Yes, occasionally, but I have also noticed a correlation between certain stimuli and your more melancholy moods. Fireworks, which I assume remind you of gunfire? Yes. Then baking bread, which I have never managed to figure out."

Watson smiled, genuinely, for the first time since his episode. "Were you the reason Mrs Hudson stopped leaving her bread to rise in the downstairs kitchen?"

"I could hardly have you moping about the place."

"It's the yeast." Watson's smile slowly faded. "Patients suffering from enteric fever give off the same odour. So when we came into that courtyard..."

Holmes had noted immediately when Watson fell behind. Tactfully but efficiently, he had cited a need to examine the courtyard in privacy and hurried Hopkins along with the client. As he returned to Watson he was glad he had done so, for never before had he seen his friend in such a state. Quaking where he stood, lips moving soundlessly, and completely oblivious to Holmes's repeated questioning. He had reached a hand toward him in desperation, which was when Watson pulled the gun.

"How can I help?" Holmes never wanted to see Watson look at him that way again, and certainly never wanted to feel so afraid of his friend as he had in that moment. "When it... happens? What can I do to bring you out of it?"

Watson flushed red again, embarrassed. "You needn't trouble yourself. I can manage. This was the first incident in some time and will likely not reoccur for years."

"Watson..."

"Keep my revolver, if it will put your mind at ease."

"Watson-"

"I promise you Holmes, I will be no danger. You needn't worry."

"Watson!" Holmes reprimanded sternly. "You have no need to worry about me casting you out for some asylum, and in truth I am offended you could ever have imagined such a thing of me. I would never, _could_ never do such a thing!"

"Even if I shot you?" Watson demanded. "Earlier tonight I looked at you and thought you were a man I shot dead over a decade ago. What if I had pulled the trigger as I did back then?"

"You mean to shock me and you won't manage," Holmes snapped back. "I have come to rely on your support in all things and I trust you implicitly, Watson. I have already offered you your old room and although you may not wish to accept, the offer stands should you ever change your mind. As for shooting me, such a thing will be far less likely if I know what I am dealing with. So I ask you again - how can I help?"

For several moments they glared at one another. Then, all at once, Watson's glare seemed almost to crumble in on itself and he buried his face in his hands, fingers failing to hold back a sudden onslaught of tears as he burst into a sobbing fit.

Holmes, unused to such emotional displays, froze in horror and for half a minute could do naught but stare at his friend's juddering form.

"It's er... it's alright old fellow... You're alright..." He reached a hand tentatively to rub at Watson's back. "There there..?"

"S- s- sorry!" Watson scrubbed frantically at his blotchy face with his shirtsleeves, but the tears would not stop. "Good God, I- I am so sorry Holmes. What must you think of me..."

"Here." Holmes proffered his handkerchief and then, thinking it wise given the sheer volume of water involved, pulled out another from his pocket and extended that too. "Take um- take a moment old chap. Or as long as you need. I'm dreadfully sorry to have upset you so."

Watson laughed then, a curious choking mix between sob and giggle.

"Watson?!"

"It- it wasn't you. I am not... I am not even sad, Holmes!" The evidence seemed to suggest otherwise, but Holmes let him continue. "It is just I- I have been _alone_ with this for so long, and I- I just-" A fresh wave of tears set in and he dashed at them with both handkerchiefs, face now bright red with shame. "How utterly stupid..."

Now he knew he was not the cause of Watson's sudden emotional outburst, Holmes relaxed. "It is quite justified. I have never been to war, but my work has at least exposed me to human depravity others are not privy to. What _you_ have seen... I can only imagine."

"Did you mean it?" There was an unusual desperate edge to Watson's question as he searched Holmes's expression frantically. Coupled with the fresh tear tracks on his cheeks and the doubt in eyes, he looked more vulnerable than Holmes had ever seen him. "You- you really want to help?"

"My dear Watson." Holmes shifted the hand still at his friend's back so that he now gripped Watson's shoulder firmly. "We have had some cause to help each other in the past, have we not? This is no different. Now take however long to calm yourself and we will fetch Mrs Hudson to bring us some more tea. Then we can discuss this together, properly."


	30. The Unsolvable Mystery

From mrspencil - a suspicious parcel

* * *

Holmes picked up a parcel from beneath our small Christmas tree with a smile that dripped arrogance. "I do not know why you bother with the wrapping. I can easily deduce what this parcel contains."

"Oh?" I continued to scribble up my notes, not even glancing up. "Then by all means proceed Holmes. I have no time for your games this year."

"Hm." He lifted the misshapen parcel up and down several times with one hand. "Reasonably light, although the weight is interestingly dispersed. Heavier at one end. A magnifying glass, perhaps?"

"No."

Holmes frowned. He shook the parcel and tilted his ear towards it with an expression of immense concentration.

"Careful," I warned lightly. "It could be fragile."

"Is it?"

I smiled beatifically. "It certainly could be."

His brow creased and he turned back to the parcel, shaking it this time with marked gentleness.

"Any luck?"

He growled in frustration and stormed off with it to his room.

"Don't unwrap it before Christmas!" I called after him. His bedroom door slammed in response. I chuckled and continued writing up my notes.

The several bundled lumps of coal he unwrapped on Christmas day did not best please him, it had to be said. But, as I pointed out, I had gotten him the one thing he he didn't have - a mystery he couldn't solve!


	31. An Ingenious Solution

From I'm Nova - Never again

* * *

 **A/N:** At long last! I am up to date with my own challenge! Thanks to you all for reading and/or reviewing. As always, anyone is welcome to take part - just get in touch!

* * *

"He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer - excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner-"

"I already know you don't like my writing," Watson cut across Holmes's bland delivery of _A Scandal in Bohemia._ "Now I thought we were going to dinner? You're not even dressed!"

"I have been too busy reading." Holmes sniffed, waving the latest copy of _The Strand_ for Watson to see. "Really, Watson, you do me an injustice. I may have no interest in _romance_ -" he fairly spat the word. "-but all and any emotion? I am hardly a 'machine'."

"Of all the things you would pick up on..." Watson sighed and perched upon an arm of the sofa. "Look, after _The Sign of the Four_ you recall those letters you started receiving from... ahem... _interested_ parties?"

Holmes shuddered. "All those enthusiastic young ladies hoping now that _you_ had settled down I might be next."

Watson couldn't help but smirk, for he well-recalled Holmes's indignant splutters every time a new letter arrived. "Well amusing as it was to see you so unusually nettled, it clearly made you uncomfortable. Thus, my solution. Hopefully you will never hear from any prospective wives again."

Holmes was silent a moment as he turned this over in his head. Abruptly, he stood.

"I will get dressed. Wait here."

"You'd best hurry or we shall miss our-"

Holmes was already bounding to his bedroom.

"-reservations..."

Watson shook his head in fond exasperation and awaited his friend's return.


	32. CONTENTS

**CONTENTS:**

1\. The Warmest Blanket \- _the warmest blanket_ \- **Friendship, H/C.** A kind gesture from Holmes has Watson glad he took up lodgings in Baker Street.

2\. Forgiven \- _Forgiven_ \- **Friendship.** Holmes reflects on the nature of friendship and forgiveness.

3\. Accident \- _Accident -_ **H/C, Friendship.** When Watson is shaken after witnessing an accident on his way home, Holmes is there to distract him.

4\. Crossover \- _A crossover with the book of your choice._ \- **Supernatural.** Holmes is back in London, but is Moriarty really dead?

5\. A Drink \- _Lestrade takes Watson out for a drink_ \- **Friendship.** With the help of Mary Watson, Lestrade begins a tradition.

6\. Cats and Dogs \- _a cat's tongue deceives, a dog's tongue is stilled through honesty_ \- **Fluff.** The Irregulars have a new pet, but Holmes must intervene.

7\. Trivial \- _Trivial_ \- **General.** Sherlock Holmes realises he has underestimated Mrs Mary Watson.

8\. Reunion on Dartmoor \- _Reunion on Dartmoor -_ **General.** In the years after Holmes's death, Watson returns to Baskerville for writing inspiration.

9\. Trip to Leeds \- _Trip to Leeds -_ **Humour.** Holmes suggests a holiday, but Watson is certain there is an ulterior motive.

10\. Prank \- _A prank goes wrong._ \- **General.** Scotland Yard learns that Doctor Watson is not to be underestimated.

11\. All Roads Lead Home \- _"At Christmas, all roads lead home." - Majorie Holmes -_ **Friendship, H/C.** Alone on Christmas Eve, Holmes hopes for better things.

12\. Silent Christmas \- _A Silent Christmas. -_ **Tragedy, Angst.** John and Mary Watson lie together in silence after the death of their child.

13\. Sharp \- _Sharp -_ **Humour.** Watson has a stern conversation with Holmes about the importance of timekeeping.

14\. Don't touch it! \- _"Don't touch it!"_ \- **Humour.** It is always best to be cautious when laying hands on anything found in the living room of 221B.

15\. Dubious \- _Watson learns a new skill_ \- **Humour.** Watson wants to drive down to Sussex. Holmes is unconvinced.

16\. That Never Was \- _The _ that never was_ \- **General.** Sherlock Holmes helps a decorated army surgeon with a case.

17\. Welcome to the Club \- _Welcome to the club_ \- **Friendship.** Why has Watson been to visit Mycroft?

18\. 50 Wishes \- _50 wishes_ \- **General.** 50 wishes Holmes and Watson each made throughout their lives.

19\. A New Companion \- _Either Holmes or Watson (your choice) is unavailable, but the game's afoot! Who comes instead?_ \- **General.** Holmes needs Watson on a case - but perhaps Mrs Watson's company might prove more useful?

20\. Responsibility _\- Responsibility -_ **Humour.** Watson asks Holmes a favour pertaining to his bullpup.

21\. Lestrade in the Know \- _Masks_ \- **General.** Lestrade is more observant than Holmes gives him credit for in the aftermath to CHAS.

22\. Mrs Hudson, Master Manipulator \- _Wishes of the season -_ **Humour.** Mrs Hudson knows just how to get what she wants from her tenant.

23\. Squeak \- _Squeak -_ **Humour.** In certain situations even Mr Sherlock Holmes might not observe a mouse infestation.

24\. Minor Adjustments _-_ _Non-speaking role -_ **Friendship.** Holmes is furious about the new 'Sherlock Holmes' play.

25\. A Proposal \- _A proposal._ \- **General.** Doctor Watson meets Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle.

26\. Revenge \- _Revenge -_ **H/C.** 3GAR AU in which Watson is more seriously wounded.

27\. The Underground \- _Engineering_ \- **Humour, H/C.** An incident in the underground tube station has Holmes laid up in hospital.

28\. The Candy Cane Killer \- _Seasonal themed murder_ \- **Humour, Horror.** An old foe is back in London.

29\. Flashback \- _asylum_ \- **Angst, H/C, Friendship.** Watson experiences a flashback to Maiwand in front of Holmes for the first time.

30\. The Unsolvable Mystery \- _a suspicious parcel_ \- **Humour.** Holmes is arrogant, but Watson is smug.

31\. An Ingenious Solution \- _Never again -_ **Humour, Friendship.** Watson explains why he wrote _SCAN._


End file.
